The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins Page 7

  It was Betty I needed, Moll’s black serving maid. I found her making a pot of coffee by the fire. She tilted her chin to a corner table away from the main company. After a few minutes she brought me a bowl of punch, taking a glass for herself and settling down across the table.

  People underestimated Betty. They ignored her, in fact. There was always one black serving maid at Moll’s – it was a tradition. And she was always called Betty – no matter her real name. Two years ago this Betty had replaced another girl. Some customers hadn’t even noticed the change – she was just the black maid pouring their coffee. The first time I saw her, it was a quiet evening. I was pretending to read a newspaper while listening to a conversation at the next bench. I’d glanced up to find Betty watching me from a corner, a half-smile on her lips. I grinned back. She’d caught me eavesdropping on the customers and I’d caught her spying on me. Kindred spirits.

  I liked Betty – I liked the way she watched the world from beneath her thick black lashes. I think she liked me too. There was something unfinished between us – some path I had missed too long ago to trace again. A secret heat I felt in her gaze. Another life, indeed.

  She sipped her punch. ‘Gonson paid us a visit last night.’

  This was not surprising news. Gonson seemed to spend half his days raiding the Cocked Pistol, and the other half searching the coffeehouses for thieving whores to punish. For a man who hated vice so much, he certainly spent a great deal of time immersed in it.

  ‘Anyone arrested?’

  Betty cupped a hand to my cheek and guided my attention towards the next bench. Two of Moll’s girls were astride the table, lazily pulling up their skirts for an elderly judge and a fawning band of lawyers. The men watched with glazed expressions as one of the girls knelt down, then ran her tongue up the other girl’s thigh and . . . Well. Not everyone shared Gonson’s crusading moral spirit, it seemed.

  ‘Mistress King has a lot of friends,’ Betty said, then sucked in her breath. Her fingers traced the bruises along my jaw. ‘I heard you was attacked.’

  ‘Defending a lady.’

  Betty looked amused. I raised my hands to protest my innocence.

  ‘Gonson asked about you last night.’ She leaned closer. Betty wore a rare perfume, laced with the warm, sweet scent of jasmine. It smelled expensive and intoxicating, an intriguing counterpoint to the rough tang of coal smoke caught in her hair. How could she afford it? Perhaps she had a secret lover; a nobleman, or a rich merchant who traded in exotic scents. And at the thought of this I felt a tinge of jealousy, though I was not entitled to such a feeling. She put her lips to my ear. ‘He wanted to know if you’d killed a man. And there was plenty willing to talk.’

  I muttered an oath. ‘What did they say?’

  ‘Lies. Half-truths. Your neighbour came with him – Burden. Went about the room, offering to pay good coin to any man who’d tell the magistrate what a foul villain you were. He’s set upon chasing you from your home.’

  Or worse. I covered my mouth with my hand. A few months ago I would have laughed at such nonsense and dismissed it. But I had learned not to be so careless. Gonson was persistent and patient, and Burden hated me. A dangerous combination.

  Across the room, Moll was calling for more wine. She would not drink it – but she was playing cards with a gang who would. Easier to win against drunken fools. Her table cheered their approval and it seemed to raise the din throughout the coffeehouse, as men shouted to be heard over their neighbours. But Betty’s voice was soft against my ear. ‘Gonson knows about the murder on Snows Fields.’

  And for a moment, that dark night enveloped me once more. The desperate fight to survive. An open grave and the taste of dirt in my mouth. The smell of gun smoke and blood. Kitty. ‘It wasn’t murder.’

  ‘Was it not?’ Betty asked, softly.

  I drank my punch while Betty watched me, worried. ‘Gonson follows the law,’ I said, as much to reassure myself as her. ‘There is no evidence. Nothing for him to discover.’

  ‘Then you should stay in your fox hole, Mr Hawkins. Let the hounds pass you by. There’ll be someone fresh for them to chase soon enough.’

  It was good advice, as ever. Betty had tried to help me once before, and I hadn’t listened. A few minutes later I had been arrested and thrown in gaol. ‘I just want to be left in peace, Betty.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Of course. That’s why you’ve been working for James Fleet.’

  Ah. That was the unfortunate thing about Betty. She really did know everything.

  Betty returned to her work while I lit a pipe, thinking about Burden and Gonson, and about Betty’s advice. I supposed it would be wise to leave London for a time. I could visit my father in Suffolk. That would require leaving Kitty alone, which I did not like. Or taking her with me to meet my father, which I did not like still more.

  I had no desire to leave the city. Why the devil should I? Why should I be chased from my home by Joseph Burden? Perhaps I should spread a few rumours about him, the blasted hypocrite. Perhaps I should tell the world that the man who lectured his neighbours on their manners all day was fucking his housekeeper at night?

  I took a draw upon my pipe and settled back in my chair, breathing smoke in a lazy stream to the ceiling. I felt comfortable at Moll’s, especially here on the fringes with a bowl of warm winter punch at hand. Disgraceful things were happening in dark corners, half-glimpsed in the fluttering candlelight. I relaxed – feeling more at ease than I had in days – and poured another glass. How many rumours had I heard and dismissed in this coffeehouse in the last three years? The punch sent a golden glow through my veins, bestowing a false contentment.

  The men at the next table were discussing the latest rift between the king and the Prince of Wales. ‘All that gold. All that power, and they still can’t muddle along together,’ one of them said, shaking his head, as if the gold and the power weren’t the problem in the first place. It’s a trifle hard to find your son agreeable when he’s tapping his toe behind you, waiting impatiently for you to snuff it.

  Bored by the conversation, I let my gaze drift across the coffeehouse. Then sat up straighter, craning my neck to look over the crowds. Was that . . .? So it was. Ned Weaver, Burden’s apprentice. I hadn’t spoken with him since the night of the invisible thief. And I had never seen him at Moll’s before. Burden would not allow it, surely. How curious. He was sitting on his own at the edge of a rowdy bench, head slumped in his hand. I knew the other men at his table – a foul bunch of villains and drunks who had prompted many of the worst fights at Moll’s. Regular customers had learned to keep their distance.

  Their leader – a short fellow, all sinew and sneer – muttered something to his companions. They shifted as one and glowered at Ned. He stared into his bowl of coffee, oblivious.

  What the devil was he doing here? In the three months I’d lived on Russell Street I had never once seen him out in the taverns and coffeehouses of Covent Garden. The men were whispering to each other now, scowling openly at the foreigner washed up upon their land. Ned was a strong, solid lad with powerful muscles from his years of labour. I’d seen him run down the street carrying an oak table twice his size on his back. But these men were ferocious bastards in a fight – and there were six of them.

  I should mind my own business. I had my bowl of punch and a fresh pipe – and troubles of my own. Stay in your fox hole, Mr Hawkins.

  Ned rubbed his hands over his face. His clothes were in disarray, his waistcoat unbuttoned, his shirt loose. He looked close to tears.

  Damn it. If he were only a bully like his master, someone I could despise and ignore. I should not trouble myself . . . And yet here I was, rising to my feet and pushing through the crowds. Might a few coins settle this? I arrived at the bench just as one of the gang shoved Ned hard in the ribs. He started as if from a dream, then leaped to his feet, fists raised. Oh, God – not another fight. Pain stabbed through my jaw at the thought. If someone hit me again tonight my head would probably
fall off.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ I said, putting a hand on Ned’s shoulder and pulling him back.

  Six men scowled up at me. There was a moment’s tense silence. I kept my shoulders back. Ned was tall and strong and so was I. Between us we could . . . run very fast for the street, God help us.

  And then, to my astonishment, all six men drew back, nervous. After a moment’s pause, the leader dipped his chin at me. ‘Mr Hawkins.’ The rest of the gang followed, nodding sharply and turning back to their punch.

  I looked from face to face, amazed by my good fortune and not quite sure I believed in it. But no – it seemed they had no appetite for a fight this evening, possibly for the first time in their lives. Half faint with relief, I grabbed Ned and led him away, back to my table. ‘That was a piece of luck,’ I muttered, leaning across to borrow a glass for him from the next table.

  Ned stole a glance across the room as I poured him some punch. ‘There was no luck to it, sir. They was afraid of you.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ I relit my pipe.

  Ned took a mouthful of punch, then coughed half of it back on to the table. He wiped his mouth with a smile of embarrassment. ‘Mr Burden don’t allow liquor in the house.’

  ‘So I hear.’ I took a long draw on my pipe. ‘But he allows Alice in his bed.’

  Ned’s handsome, open face flashed with anger. ‘That . . . that is not true,’ he floundered. He was a terrible liar.

  ‘The walls are very thin, Ned.’

  He struggled for a moment, loyal to his master. But I could see the desire to confide in someone playing through him, and there was anger there too. His fists, resting on the table, were clenched tight. ‘It’s wicked, sir,’ he said at last. ‘Alice Dunn is a respectable woman. But if she doesn’t . . . If she refused him . . . She’s nowhere to go. She’d end up like them.’ His eyes flickered to the girls at the lawyers’ table, gowns pulled down to their waist. Hands working under loosened breeches.

  I laid down my pipe. ‘He’s taking her against her will?’

  ‘It started a few weeks ago, in secret. We didn’t know. Then Alice cried thief the other night – from his bed. We all heard her.’ He hung his head. ‘Now he don’t bother to keep quiet. I scolded Alice for it, told her it was a sin. She swore Mr Burden made her do it. She said he makes her cry out so we can hear. I don’t know. I suppose . . . perhaps she lies . . .’

  But I could tell he did not believe that. There were tears in his eyes, as if the shame were his and not his master’s. And in truth how could he stand to lie abed at night and listen to it? We had laughed, Kitty and I, when we heard Burden and Alice together. It made me sick to think of it.

  And what of Burden’s children, Judith and Stephen? Did they know the truth – did they understand? I hoped to God they did not. I thought of Judith crouched on the stairs that night, spitting Alice’s name as if it tasted foul upon her tongue. And Stephen, threatening to tell Gonson what he saw. What he truly saw that night.

  I felt a terrible rage growing inside me. This was the man who was spreading foul lies about me? The man who dared to judge me a villain? I closed my eyes. How I hated him in that moment. And the thought came to me before I could stop myself. I wish that he were dead. ‘That is terrible, Ned. How can you bear it?’

  Ned rolled his empty glass around and around in a despondent fashion. He had the hands of a busy carpenter – battered and grazed, quick and clever. ‘There’s something wrong with him. He ain’t himself. I’ve been his apprentice for seven years. Six days a week working at his side. He promised me a paid position once I’d finished my apprenticeship. And now it’s done . . .’ His voice fractured. ‘He’s ordered me to leave by the end of the week.’

  ‘My God!’ To promise a position for seven years, to benefit from Ned’s labour for all that time – and then withdraw the offer when the apprenticeship was over? It was nothing more than slavery. ‘Can he not afford to pay you?’

  ‘Ten times over! There’s no sense to it. How will he manage without me? The old fool can’t survive on his own, not at his age.’

  ‘Perhaps he expects to hand the business to Stephen?’

  ‘Stephen? He couldn’t lift a hammer.’ Ned’s face crinkled in amusement and I was struck once again by his kind nature. I would have felt bitter and resentful in his place. Ned seemed more perplexed. As if his master had been replaced with a stranger. It was the puzzle of it all that seemed to trouble him the most. ‘What am I to do, Mr Hawkins?’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry, Ned. You’re an honest man with a good trade. Strong and healthy . . .’ I patted his arm. My God, strong was right. His muscles were hard as iron. ‘You’ll have no trouble finding a position.’

  ‘But it’s my home, sir.’ He paused, eyes filled with tears once more. ‘I thought he was proud of me. But he doesn’t care if I starve in the street. Seven years. Seven years for nothing.’

  I frowned in sympathy. Poured him another glass.

  By the time we’d reached the bottom of a second punch bowl – of which Ned had drunk half a glass – I had boiled myself into a drunken fury. How dare Burden use Ned in such a cruel fashion? And how dare he blacken my reputation in the neighbourhood? Leaving the coffeehouse, I stumbled out into the piazza, Ned trailing anxiously at my heels. The cold night air slapped at my face and the cobbles buckled at my feet. I had not felt this drunk for a long time. I had barely touched a drop since my fight in St James’s Park, and I had forgotten to eat supper.

  When I reached Burden’s house, I pounded my fist against the door.

  ‘Burden! Come out and face me, you son of a cunt!’ What had I just said? Son of a . . . what did that mean? I shook my head, clearing it a little.

  Ned put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Mr Hawkins, sir . . .’

  He was strong, but there is no one stronger than an outraged drunk. I wrested myself free and kicked the door, slamming my heel into the wood. When no one came, I kicked it again. I kicked and pounded at it until the blood ran from my knuckles. And then I drew my sword and slammed the pommel into the wood.

  At last the bolts swung back and Burden stood in the doorway, angry and defiant – until he saw the sword in my fist. ‘What is this?’

  I slotted the sword back in my belt – after several failed attempts. It is a hard procedure when there is more punch in one’s veins than blood. ‘You have been spreading lies. Vile, scoundralous lies.’ I paused. One of those words was not, necessarily, a word.

  ‘Ned,’ Burden called, beckoning him inside.

  Ned shouldered his way past, looking sheepish. As Burden moved to close the door I pushed back, glaring at him through the crack. ‘How dare you judge me,’ I hissed. ‘When you’re fucking Alice Dunn against her will?’

  Burden looked stunned at this – but he recovered fast enough. He grinned, baring his teeth. ‘Mr Gonson visited the Marshalsea today. One of the turnkeys swears you killed a man.’

  And of a sudden, I was sober.

  ‘They’ll hang you for it,’ he crowed. ‘That is a promise, Hawkins.’

  He closed the door in my face.

  Fear washed through me. It wasn’t true. It wasn’t possible. I was innocent. But I had made enough enemies in gaol – and I could think of several turnkeys who would be happy to perjure themselves for a price. Or worse – tell Gonson what had really happened. Oh, God – no. The ground pitched beneath my feet and I had to clutch the wall to steady myself.

  Now the heat of fury had left me I felt exhausted. My hands were throbbing. I stared down in confusion and saw to my horror that my knuckles were raw and bloody from pounding at Burden’s door. Oh God. What had I done? The street was alive behind me, summoned by the drumming of my fists. The girls in the brothel across the road grinned and waved as I caught their eye while our more respectable neighbours stood frozen on their doorsteps, mouths open in shock. They hadn’t heard Burden’s accusation, but they’d seen me beat down his door, raving like a lunatic. With a sword in my hand.

  I hurried home,
closing the door on the world. Collapsed on the stairs. Tore off my hat and wig and loosened my cravat, thinking hard. I should flee to the continent – set off tonight before Gonson could arrange a warrant. I leaped up the stairs, then stopped on the landing. Leave without Kitty? Impossible. If Gonson spoke to the wrong people she would be in just as much danger.

  Eliot would help us if we told him the truth. Perhaps he had guessed some of it. Yes – that was the best course of action, at least it seemed to be. My head was still muddled by the drink. I collected a few things for Kitty – some clothes, her father’s papers, her jewellery – and all the money I could find in the house. I had just begun on my own clothes when there was a sharp rap at the door.

  I cursed and moved to the window. A carriage stood outside the shop, guarded by two men with clubs. My heart swooped like a hawk. I was too late. Another guard stood at the door, a musket at his shoulder. He glanced up and saw me at the window. ‘Mr Hawkins. Open up, sir!’

  With a rush of relief, I recognised him as the guard I’d saved in St James’s Park. These must be Henrietta Howard’s men.

  I hurried downstairs, gathering my wig and hat from the floor. As I opened the door, the guard gave a short bow and beckoned me to the carriage.

  I gestured inside. ‘I will leave a note for—’

  ‘—no time,’ he interrupted.

  I hesitated, suddenly suspicious. ‘Where are we going?’

  The guard signalled to the others. In a second they had seized me and slung me into the carriage. I tumbled to the floor, a pile of clothes and a jumble of limbs. I struggled up on to the bench while the guard settled back on the opposite seat and slammed the door tight. With a soft cry, the driver urged the horses forward and we raced away, down Drury Lane towards the Strand. I held on to my seat with my bruised hands, feeling somewhat dizzy from the swaying carriage and the speed of my capture.